(Don't Ever Want to Tame) This Wild Heart
by acaelousqueadcentrum
Summary: Love is a chronicle of blood and bruises and bone. Or, when you fall in love with a cop you spend a lot of time around the ER.
1. Chapter 1

They met at LEOs, this bar on the west side of town that catered pretty exclusively to cops and the like.

Clarke'd been there to celebrate the retirement of one of her father's oldest friends, and Lexa, drug there by her partner to burn off some frustration after a long day of chasing down idiots on her beat.

And maybe it was the booze, or dim lighting of the place. Maybe it was the songs coming from the jukebox in the corner, reminding them both of things they'd rather forget, or the terrible day they'd both had.

Or maybe it was just time and chance and fate, but whatever it was, the moment Clarke caught Lexa's eye the air seemed to arc and spark with blue-hot electricity, pulling them together across the beer-sticky floor, through the raucous clash of people lifting and toasting before draining their pints.

They ended up in the alley. A late-summer storm threatening to rip open the sky and drown them in much-needed rain as they grabbed and pulled and tore at each other's bodies. Lightning crackled across the cityscape in the distance and Clarke bit at the brunette's lower lip, laughing as the hand struggling to open the button of her jeans finally, finally succeeded and two firm fingers slipped into her wet, hot sex.

They met at a bar and they fucked in an alley, Lexa's head banging violently against the brick wall behind her as Clarke drove her higher and higher into the heights of pleasure, the rumbling thunder swallowing her loud moans.

"Careful," Clarke said, "I'm not taking you to the E.R. if you split your head open," and then curled her fingers and thrust faster.

When the rain did come, moments later, they just laughed and let the cool droplets wash away the scent of lust and sex and release from their skin.

* * *

 _It was supposed to be a one-time thing,_ Clarke thought to herself as she tried to hail a cab in the middle of rush-hour. It was kind of embarassing, how they'd met and had sex before they knew anything about each other but a name and a shared sense of restrained desperation. It had been impulsive and reckless and so, so good, but it wasn't supposed to happen a second time.

Or a third.

She wasn't supposed to have given Lexa her number, or answered the police officer's call.

But she did.

She did.

And somehow, three months later, she still was.

Neither of them had been looking for a relationship, had even wanted one, and yet, somehow, that's what they'd gotten themselves into.

Because booty calls became hanging out and hanging out became dates and dates became dating. Despite the fact that neither of them had any faith in anything like "love." Their pasts, their families, had cured them of that.

Lexa, with her abusive father and her drunk of a mother, had told her flat out, "I don't believe in love. It's something that makes you do things you shouldn't."

Like take your husband back a third, fourth, fifth time. After he breaks your arm. After he steals your savings. After he cheats on you with the neighbor's wife, again.

And Clarke agreed. Because her past may not have been as violent, but it certainly held its share of tragedy. "Even when it's good," Clarke told Lexa one night over whiskey and ice cream as they sat on her couch, "love is a terrible thing."

Like watching someone you love suffer from a debilitating disease with no cure. Like sacrificing everything–your career, your daughter's faith, almost your freedom itself–to write a prescription for a fatal overdose of painkillers, and then watching as your husband killed himself in a misguided attempt to spare everyone any more pain.

Love, they agreed together, made people weak.

And they'd both had enough weakness in their lives.

Still, there was something there. Something more than sex and fire between them. There was Clarke's Saturday morning bacon pancakes, just enough to soak up the remains of their hangovers as they watched the Top 20 countdown. And there was meeting Lexa's partner and buying the entire crowd a round of shots to celebrate the end of her rookie year. And the way that Clarke's sketchbook seemed to be filled with images of a single subject, from every angle imaginable. From memory. From dreams. Lexa's back, Lexa's thigh, the hard curve of Lexa's jaw.

There was something more between them, something growing, and it made Clarke's breath all the harder to keep under control as she threw a couple of bills at the driver and ran toward the big, wide doors of the ambulance bay.

"I'm looking for Lex–for Alexandria Woods," Clarke said to the nurse at the admitting desk of the busy ER, "she called me to pick her up?"

The nurse didn't bother looking up from her computer when she finally replied with a curt "Exam three–but she'll be out in a minute" and then continued her almost violent typing.

Clarke hesitated, torn between the desire to march past the swinging double doors into the emergency room beyond or the more sensible option of grabbing a seat and waiting for Lexa to appear. In the end, it was the realization of just how badly she wanted to go back and find the other woman that kept her on the public side of the doors.

There might be something there between them, but that didn't mean she had to make it easy.

It was only a few minutes, anyway, before a short but muscular orderly pushed Lexa into the waiting room in a wheelchair.

She looked awful. Her nose was covered in white gauze and tape, and had clearly been broken. It must have been a bad one, whatever it was that hit her, because the swelling and bruising extended up toward her eyes. The left one looked to be almost swollen shut, in fact.

No wonder the officer had called her–there was no way she'd be able to drive home on her own.

Clarke'd be surprised if Lexa could even see out of the left one, honestly.

"You ready?" she asked, and stood, "do we need to pick up anything? Food? Pain killers? A tub of ice for you to stick your face in?"

Somehow, even battered and bruised, the glare Lexa shot in her direction came through loud and clear.

Clark'll get the full story later, the one about the perp who head-butted Lexa and then fainted at the sight of blood spurting out from the officer's nose, but for the moment–after Lexa has signed the discharge paperwork, after the lecture on aftercare, after the prescription for pain meds has been picked up from the hospital pharmacy two buildings over–they sat quietly in the back of another cab, waiting for someone to make room for the driver to merge into traffic during the Friday night rush hour standstill.

And Clarke wondered to herself if maybe it wasn't okay, to feel something for the woman struggling so hard not to nod off at her side. As if to let the drugs take her under would be letting the idiot who rammed his head into her face win.

"Here," she said, and moved her bag off her lap, "we'll be stuck for a while. Just lay your head down for a bit–you'll feel better."

Lexa refused at first, but then, unable to find a comfortable position to sit in otherwise, gave in.

"You know, Lexa," Clarke said as she gently smoothed her hand over the wisps that had escaped the other woman's braided hair, "I've gotta give it to the guy, this look might actually be an improvement."

Lexa's snort was pained, and earned her a soft "Lex" from the blonde, feeling guilty for having teased.

The rest of the ride, they spent in a comfortable silence, as Lexa dozed in Clarke's lap and Clarke tried to figure out how she felt about the fact that her racing pulse and tight chest had only just begun to ease.

She wasn't sure what it was.

But it was something.


	2. Chapter 2

It got serious when they weren't paying attention.

One day, a little less than a year since they'd met, Clarke realized that half the laundry in her basket belonged to the leggy brunette who was always drinking the last of her milk and never replacing it. That except on rare occasions, the first and last person she talked to every day was Lexa. That she'd started to think of her bed in terms of "her side" and "my side."

It didn't just scare her.

It terrified her.

It was more than just having fun anymore. It was more than enjoying each other's bodies and minds, drinking and fucking and arguing over which reality show was the absolute worst.

She missed Lexa when the other woman was away. Missed having Lexa in her bed, missed rolling over and into the other woman in the middle of the night when the officer was on night shifts.

And she thought about her. Often. More than she'd ever thought about any of the other people she'd fucked, or had a mutually pleasurable friends-with-benefits arrangement with, or even anyone she'd ever dated.

Clarke found herself thinking about Lexa as she worked, as she mixed the perfect shade of green on her palatte, just the color of those cool green eyes. Or as she shopped for groceries, wondering whether the brunette would prefer stir-fry or steak when she inevitably knocked at Clarke's studio door. Or seeing a handsome chest of drawers abandoned in the alley behind her gallery, and thought of the growing pile of Lexa's belongings in her apartment.

Somehow, she told Raven in a panic as she swiped to send Lexa's call to voicemail, in the months between seeing if the hot cop with the long, long legs was up for a drink a few days after their hook-up behind the bar, and waking up to the woman straddling her hips on the morning of her birthday, naked and holding out a cupcake with "Clarke" written on it in green frosting, that tall wall around her heart had cracked open.

And Lexa, deft and dark, sexy and surprisingly sweet, had slipped in.

Raven, ever tactful, did her best to look comforting and sympathetic.

It really didn't help.

* * *

Clarke avoided Lexa for a week, claiming-not entirely falsely-that she had work to do on some of her larger pieces and had fallen behind. And the cop, no stranger to duty, understood.

And the fact that she felt terrible about it made the whole situation even worse.

But every time Clarke had ever given her heart to someone else, it'd been broken. Or betrayed.

She wasn't sure she had enough in her to go another round. Wasn't sure she had it in her to start over again.

* * *

The week stretched.

Eight days.

Nine.

Ten.

And every day Clarke resisted the urge to call off her self-imposed isolation. Instead she tried to bury herself in work.

She turned music on, loud enough to drown out her thoughts, and attacked her blank canvases, front line to a war she was fighting within herself. She painted from sun-up to long after sun-down, stopping only when she was too exhausted to continue, til sleep could replace the pounding music in her ears, keep her from thinking the thoughts she didn't want to have.

Finally, on the twelfth day, she stopped.

She gave in.

Looking around at the drying canvases-crap, most of them, she thought, fears made real; but a few stood out, the surprisingly hopeful darkness of a familiar alley, the soft mystique of a cityscape blurred by rain against a window pane, a pair of hands, soft and scarred-Clarke realized something.

That war she was fighting, that battle?

She'd already lost.

* * *

It was late, or maybe it was early, but Clarke paid no mind as she banged a third time on Lexa's door.

She had a key, yes, but Lexa had a gun and had been very clear about the key only being used for emergencies. This, she was pretty sure, didn't count.

Especially after she'd avoided the other woman for almost two weeks, sending her calls directly to voicemail, ignoring all but one or two of Lexa's texts.

 _{You okay? You alive?}_ Lexa had asked.

 _{So far.}_

It had been the only answer Clarke felt sure enough to give.

She counted seconds in her head, waiting a full minute before raising her fist to pound again. But the door opened instead, and she ended up pounding at Lexa's shoulder.

"I'm a police officer, Clarke," Lexa said with half a snarl, "I could have you arrested for disturbing the peace. Hell, I could do it myself." Her tone was angry and tired and annoyed, and something else, maybe. But still, she stepped back and let the blonde stomp past her.

* * *

Inside the apartment, the blonde paused, and turned, and looked back at the other woman closing the door.

"You're wearing my shirt," she said, her voice soft and curious.

Lexa didn't answer, just leaned back against the door and stared back at Clarke.

It was her father's shirt, actually. A big, warm flannel button-up in wide green and thin blue plaid, made soft from years of washings. Sometimes, when she wore it, Clarke could swear it still smelled of him, sandalwood and spice, and she never felt safer than when she was wrapped up in its familiar fabric.

Maybe it was silly, but it was one of the most precious things she owned. And seeing it on Lexa, seeing it against Lexa's darker skin, just a thin cami underneath and a pair of short running trunks to cover her legs, filled something in Clarke that she hadn't even known was empty.

"It was my dad's shirt," she said, quieter, and the brunette lowered her eyes, looked away.

"I know," Lexa answered, a whispered confession, and all of the hard parts inside Clarke went soft, all of the walls her anxiety and fear and angst had pumped up deflated.

Clarke looked around the apartment, seeing the tangle of blankets on the couch, the warm light of the lamp in the corner casting a glare on the snowy TV.

"What are we doing, Lex?" she asked.

And for the first time, the first time since they'd met, Lexa didn't have an answer.

* * *

"What are we doing, Lex," Clarke repeated as she sat down on the couch, toying with one of the blankets that still held Lexa's warmth, "what is this we've gotten ourselves into?"

Lexa stood over her for a moment, debating. And fuck if the blonde didn't know exactly what was going through her head, and fuck if Lexa didn't know it.

Sit in the chair across from Clarke and let the other woman know she was intimated, that she couldn't trust herself to be close.

Sit on the couch next to her and have to struggle against Clarke's familiar warmth, the urge to sneak closer and closer.

With a huff, Lexa sat, almost primly, on the low table in front of the couch.

It wasn't a win, but it wasn't a loss either.

"I thought we were having fun together," Lexa answered, and there was a hint of defeat in her voice, "at least until you went all incommunicado on me. Now I think we're breaking up, Clarke."

She was the strongest person that Clarke had ever met, Lexa was, the bravest, the most honest and pure. And now, sitting in front of her, there was the slightest hint of tears in Lexa's eyes, the tiniest tremble in her hands.

Clarke had spent years being brave, letting herself let others go. But this, Lexa, she didn't want to.

She couldn't.

So she took a deep breath and gathered up every bit of courage she had, conjured the memory of her father, the mental picture she carried with her in her heart, the soft love in his eyes whenever he looked at her, at her mother.

She could be like him, she could have faith.

She could let herself love.

"Breaking up is for relationships, Lex, is that what we were doing?" She had to ask, because honestly, she wasn't sure. They'd never talked about it. They'd slipped easily from one thing to the next, but never taken the time to say the things that meant anything.

But Lexa just looked at her. There was pain there, buried in the other woman's many hard and complicated layers, and loss and betrayal too. But there was more, there was a softness and a tenderness, a naked wanting, an aching to be treasured and to be loved.

"I feel," Clarke started, taking a chance, leaping, "I feel things for you, Lexa. And that scares me. It terrifies me."

She turned toward the brunette, tugging at the ends of her father's flannel shirt, letting their knees knock together.

"I know that we didn't want this, but it's been good, we've been good. And I don't want to lose it."

Lexa opened her mouth to speak, but Clarke shook her head, not quite finished.

"I spent a week-I spent twelve days trying to figure out what I wanted, Lex. And I figured out three things. I'm tired of being afraid. I don't want this to end. I want," she swallowed, "I want more, Lexa. I want to try for more."

It wasn't everything she could have said.

It wasn't everything she felt or thought or knew.

But it was a start.

It was a chance.

And she was so, so grateful when Lexa took it.

"You left your shirt here," the brunette said, "and it smells like you."

Lexa looked almost surprised to hear herself speak, and then shocked to hear herself continue.

"It smells like you and my pillows smell like you and I can't sleep because I've gotten used to the sound of someone's heavy breathing all through the night. I can't sleep and it's messing with my life-I'm a cop, Clarke, I carry a gun and I'm tired, so tired. You stopped talking to me and I can't sleep and I have a badge and a gun and I'm afraid of what might happen if-"

The blonde nodded, understanding what Lexa was trying to say, the words she couldn't quite get out.

And then, after a moment, the she went further, further than even she thought was possible.

"I don't want to lose you either, Clarke," Lexa said finally, unable to meet the other woman's eyes.

But it was okay.

It was all going to be okay.

* * *

Clarke stood, blanket around her shoulders like a cape, and reached for Lexa's hands. They were cool-they were almost always cool-even in the warmth of the early morning July.

They were silent. Clarke determined and Lexa confused.

But they walked, slowly, together, down the hall toward Lexa's bedroom.

Clarke noted the messy covers, the sheets strewn across the mattress, as she toed off her shoes and let her shorts fall to the ground, as she reached under her shirt and wriggled out of her bra.

"Lay down," she said, softer than a whisper, gentler than a plea, and then turned off the light.

She slipped in bed next to Lexa, whose eyes were already drifting closed.

"Clarke," she whispered as they lay face to face.

But Clarke just looked at her, "You should sleep, Lex," she said, "we'll talk more in the morning. I'm not going anywhere, not anymore."

And Lexa slipped under, breathing slowing, evening out, until she was fast asleep.

But Clarke? Clarke didn't sleep. Not a wink. Instead she watched. Watched as the silver light of the moon played over Lexa's relaxed face, as the warm rays of dawn broke through the curtains, how they caught and danced along the tiny scar at the bridge of Lexa's nose, along her shoulder, the sheet that draped over her hip.

For the first time in days, in over two weeks, she felt like maybe this wasn't going to end in tragedy. Like maybe falling love meant more than just another long countdown to goodbye.


	3. Chapter 3

"Sign this," Clarke said angrily and thrust a sheaf of papers at the cop in the hospital bed, slamming a pen down on the rolling bed-table as Lexa pointed out she has nothing to sign with.

"Whoa," the brunette whistled, "it's just a concussion, Clarke. It's not like I got stabbed or anything."

But Clarke just glared at her from the side of the bed, and Lexa sighed.

"Okay, what are these," she asked as she picked up the pen with her unbandaged hand.

Clarke sighed, "First of all, you didn't _just_ get a concussion. You got a concussion when you fell backwards after some punk-tweaker sliced your arm open with a broken piece of glass. And second, those are the papers you need to change your 'Next of Kin' to me." She sat down on the stiff vinyl-covered chair next to the bed.

Lexa was silent for a moment, pen frozen in the air as she stared back at her girlfriend, mouth open in shock or maybe awe. This seemed like a big moment, far too big for the joke she'd been trying to make of it, for the light tone she'd put on as she tried to set Clarke at ease.

"Clarke,-" she started, but the blonde interrupted her.

"They called your mother, Lex. You never designated a next of kin so they called your mother. I had to wait in the emergency room for three hours until you woke up and asked for me. No one would tell me anything," she said, frustrated, pissed off. "I had no idea how you were, and no matter how much your partner and the chief argued with them, they couldn't tell me anything because I'm not family or your partner."

Clarke finally meets her eyes, and there are tears clouding those sky-blue irises.

"They called your mother instead, Lex. Legally, she's got more rights than I do. Until you designate someone or are otherwise legally bound to someone, they're going to call your mom to make decisions when you're unconscious."

Lexa looked over at her girlfriend, seeing how lost Clarke looked, how scared. With a furrowed brow and a flourish of the pen, she signed the paperwork.

"There," she said, "I'll have Gus file this and it'll be done, you'll be my official next of kin. I hope you know what you've gotten yourself into, Clarke Griffin."

Lexa patted the bed, "Now, come up here and keep me company. Someone's gotta make sure I don't fall into a coma. Might as well be you."

And though her tone as teasing, she knew her girlfriend could hear the feeling, the meaning underneath the words. "Come on," she said again, and gave Clarke a gentle smile.

Slowly, carefully, and clearly against her better judgement, Clarke climbed up and into the hospital bed. She sat there, clearly uncomfortable and worried about hurting the cop, or worse, some doctor or nurse walking in and catching them.

"I'm sorry, Clarke, I really am," Lexa said from where she lay, reclined against the raised head of the bed, "I just never thought of it, it's never come up before."

She watched as Clarke nodded, as Clarke slowly relaxed until she, too, was half-sitting, half-laying in the bed. Lexa brought up her uninjured arm to link fingers with her girlfriend, to squeeze gently. A little reminder that she was okay, that she was still there. That nothing could take her away from the woman she loved.

Yes, loved.

It still surprised her sometimes, that she'd fallen for Clarke. That she'd fallen in love with Clarke.

She hadn't thought she was capable. Of anger, of fear, yes. Of determination, of ambition, of course. Of pleasure and of fun and of excitement. Always.

But love?

Not her.

She'd thought she was above it, beyond it. She'd thought the ability beaten out of her long ago. In the earliest years of her childhood. In dark rooms, with big fists, hands that should have loved and cared for her instead of hurting, instead of leaving bruises and cracked ribs and one time, the worst time, a broken arm. She thought it'd been stolen away from her as she hid in closets and plugged her ears, trying not to hear her mother scream or her father yell.

Oh, she'd been a fool. Thinking herself cold and hard and beyond the gentler parts of life, of living.

And then there'd been Clarke.

And hadn't she taken Lexa by surprise. Hadn't she just appeared one day, bringing with her all the colors Lexa thought she'd left behind, all she thought she could live without.

She'd been so wrong.

* * *

"My mother," Lexa asked after a few moments of quiet, "did she come?"

She expects the answer to be no, and isn't upset when Clarke confirmed with a shake of her head.

"Probably fighting off last night's drunk or working toward tonight's, it's no matter. I wouldn't have wanted her here anyway," she said, and her girlfriend didn't bother to point out the obvious lie. She knew-she was the only one who knew-the part of the police officer who still wanted, who still wished. They'd talked about it, one night not too long ago, Lexa's secret wish that one day her mother would wake up and want to bea mother more than she wanted her next drink.

"I'm sorry, Lex," Clarke whispered, but Lexa just smiled at her softly, her green eyes dark.

"Hey," she asked as she turned to her side and moved closer to the woman next to her in the hospital bed, "what was that other thing you said, legally binding?"

"Earlier?" Clarke responded, "it just that the next of kin thing isn't always followed. Especially if it's not a relative. So it can be overruled if there's a dispute between that person and someone with a stronger legal tie to you, like a parent or child or spouse."

Lexa let the words swirl around in her head.

"So if you were my wife," she tested the word out on her tongue, "no one would be able to keep you in the dark, or out of my hospital room?"

The blonde nodded slowly.

"Okay, then let's do it. Marry me," Lexa said quietly, a gentle smile to let Clarke know that she was serious, that she wasn't teasing or making fun.

"Lex," Clarke was breathless as she looked into the police officer's eyes. The hand that had been playing with Lexa's fingers stilled.

This wasn't something they'd ever talked about; it'd been hard enough to admit they were a relationship with each other, to admit that they were in love.

But this, this wasn't anything on their radar.

"Look," Lexa spoke again, "I like what we have. I don't want anyone else." She brought her hand up to Clarke's warm cheek, "So let's do this. Let's get married. If it means that you get called whenever something happens to me, and if it means that you're taken care of should I be killed in the line of duty, I want to do it."

Clarke just took a deep breath.

"Lexa," she tried to respond, but the words caught in her throat. "Lexa, I-this isn't just-"

Lexa's voice was soft, but strong when she spoke.

"Clarke, I love you. You're it for me," she said, "and that doesn't change if we never get married, but if getting married means that you're protected, means that you'll never have to wait in an ER with no answers again, then we do it. We get married. And nothing changes, you still snore and I still refuse to rinse the dishes before I put them in the dishwasher, and we go on with our lives, Clarke."

"I love you, Clarke," she whispered and gently traced the line of her girlfriend's cheek with her thumb, "so marry me."

* * *

It took four days.

One for Lexa to be discharged, and then three days for the waiting period after they made their appointment.

The days passed quickly, even though they didn't talk about it. Not until two nights before their Friday appointment. Not until Lexa asked if Clarke wanted to invite her mother.

And then, for a few tense, cold hours, neither of them were sure they'd make even it to the judge.

"No, why on Earth would I want to invite her," Clarke had shouted, waving a wooden spoon in the air as she let the pot of sauce simmer on the stove. "I haven't talked to her in years, Lex, you know that."

They'd argued back and forth, until Clarke asked if she should invite Lexa's father, if the cop was so keen on having parents there to witness the event and all. And then they'd stopped talking.

For most of the night.

Until Clarke brought a hot pot of tea into the living room where Lexa was sitting, very deliberately not watching some show or another on their tv.

"Hey," she said, "I'm sorry. I went too far and I'm sorry."

She put the tea down and sat on the table, not quite sure she'd be welcome on the couch.

Lexa didn't say anything at first, just looked at her, eyes wet and mossy. But then she did speak, her voice was steady, her jaw firm.

"You did," she answered.

And Clarke ached at the sound, because she knew, she was the only person in Lexa's life who knew everything. Who knew about the past, the scars. Who'd witnessed the nightmares, who'd sat and watched over her as she tried to get back to sleep.

"Lex," she said, and poured everything she felt into the words, her love and her regret, "I'm sorry." Clarke held out her hand, palm up, and hoped with her whole heart that the woman she loved, the woman she was going to marry, would take it.

After a moment, she did.

* * *

The marriage was easy. Lexa's partner and Raven appeared as witnesses.

The only surprise came when the judge asked if they were going to exchange rings, and Lexa pulled a velvet box out from her pocket.

"Here," she said, and took out a ring with hands that were just the slightest bit unsteady.

The look on Clarke's face was worth the embarrassment of shaking hands, though, as the blonde whispered furiously that she didn't have a ring prepared.

"No trouble," Lexa said with a grin, "I came prepared." She held up another ring, identical to the first.

Twenty minutes later, it was done. They were wed.

* * *

They hadn't planned on telling anyone, no more than their two closest friends, the witnesses. But it turned out that neither Raven nor Anya could keep the damn mouths shut, and so the quick drink they'd been planning on having after the ceremony turned into a raucous party at the very bar where they'd met.

Cops and artists.

Beer and cocktails and a cake someone had brought from a nearby bakery. Decorated with a pair of frosting handcuffs and a paintbrush, no less.

The two brides sat off to the side while their friends drank and danced and laughed.

"We could sneak out of here," Lexa whispered, and hooked a finger into one of the belt-loops of Clarke's jeans, pulling her girlfriend-her wife-up against her.

"We could," Clarke agreed, and Lexa could hear the amusement in her voice, "but I'm still curious where you got these fancy rings from." She held up her hand and watched the way the lights of the bar reflected in the gold band. "Because last time I checked, you were at home with me the past several days, barred from driving due to that concussion that started this whole thing. So," she said, "how'd you do it, Officer?"

"Truthfully," Lexa said with a smirk, "I had Anya go and get them. Gave her my credit card and told her to get whatever the exact opposite of what she'd buy herself was. We're just lucky they don't have skulls engraved on them, to be honest."

Clarke laughed loudly, and bent down to kiss her wife.

"Let's get out of here," she whispered.

Lexa was only too happy to comply.


	4. Chapter 4

It was Clarke's first solo showing. She'd had pieces exhibited in galleries or shows over the years. One here, two there. Tiny footsteps into the great world of modern art.

But this was her show.

Her name on the fliers and the banner.

Her paintings on every wall, her best work featured for all to see.

She was thrilled.

She was terrified.

* * *

Clarke woke up clutching desperately at the sheets of their bed as her body tipped over into an unexpected orgasm. She could feel one of Lexa's hands on her, a firm pressure over her lower abdomen, keeping her from moving too much, from disrupting the rhythm her wife had going. The other hand, of course, was slowly driving her insane as Lexa thrust shallowly into her hot, wet pussy, deliberately keeping Clarke off-balance.

"Fuck, Lex," the blonde said as the waves of her first orgasm, sweet but unfulfilling, subsided, "stop teasing."

But her wife just paused for a moment and looked up to catch Clarke's sleepy, sex-hooded eyes, to grin wickedly before returning to her task. She sucked and nipped at the skin just over the artist's hipbone, the curve there where she loved to rest her hand possessively. And she continued to thrust lazily within her wife, knowing full well that the short, slow, irregular rhythm of her fingers could not satisfy Clarke's desire, her need.

Lexa released the little patch of skin she'd caught between her teeth and then lowered her nose to nuzzle at the red mark, a reminder of her that Clarke would carry with her throughout the day. She loved marking her wife, it gave her a perverse sort of pleasure, to know that every now and again Clarke would feel a twinge or a throb, and remember how she received it, who gave it to her.

Clarke might paint in oils, but Lexa paints in sweet bruises, with teeth and tongue and lips.

"Alexandria," Clarke threatened as her hips struggled against the hand keeping them still, as she struggled to thrust, to force her partner into more contact, to direct Lexa's hands where she wanted-where she needed-them to go.

But it came out breathless and throaty, and the brunette ignored it. Instead she continued to mark her lover's body, dragging her teeth over the ridges of Clarke's ribs, sucking hard at a patch of skin just under her gorgeous, heavy breast, another secret mark for the blonde to discover later. And then Lexa laved her tongue over Clarke's perky, swollen nipples; two long licks, a swirl over the hard tips, before taking one into the warm heat of her mouth and suckling firmly.

Lexa alternated for a few minutes, back and forth between her wife's sweet nipples, until Clarke's breath came in short bursts. And then the brunette just smiled and slowly, slowly, slowly pulled out the two fingers from the hot paradise of Clarke's sex. The blonde's whimper at the loss went straight to Lexa's clit, and she felt her nipples tighten in arousal. But it was nothing compared to how she felt when she accidentally brushed a finger against her wife's hard, wet, hot clit, swollen and aching for attention, and felt Clarke shudder and shake under her.

She almost gave in, almost pressed her lips desperately against the blonde's and slipped back inside, almost let her thumb ride fast and steady against Clarke's clit until she finally, finally came.

But she didn't.

She was stronger than that.

Instead, Lexa reached under the discarded blanket to her side as she sat back on her knees, watching as her wife struggled to get her breathing under control, as she failed.

Clarke was beautiful.

Clarke was always beautiful. But there was something about that morning. About how she lay in their bed, the way she struggled to hold her head up, the way she fought for some semblance of control even as she begged Lexa to take it from her. Her blonde hair mussed from sleep and the rosy hue of her skin, warm in the morning sun, flush with pleasure.

It stilled something in the police officer, it always did. The image wrapped itself around Lexa's heart, the secret shield she carried out into the world, hidden under her uniform, stronger than her gun.

No one had ever loved Lexa like Clarke did. No one. No one had ever looked at her like this, like she'd stop breathing if Lexa would only ask, like she'd stop the world turning if Lexa would only say the word.

It was empowering, this love, the way that Clarke could look at her and she'd forget that there was ever a time in her life when she wasn't loved by this woman.

It was a weakness, yes, just the way they'd both feared, but it was a weakness she could tolerate. The way a word from her wife could soothe away her anger and her fear, could make her forget every annoyance, every trespass, every darkness that had clouded her day, her mind.

"Hey," she whispered, placing a hand on the inside of Clarke's thigh, needing the blonde to focus on her for a moment, to hear what she needed to say.

"I love you," Lexa said simply, honestly, "I love you, Clarke, and I'm so proud of you."

She could say a thousand things, and they'd all be true. But at that moment, in their bed as morning just broke in the distance, those words were the only ones that mattered, that meant anything.

Those were the words upon which they were building their forevers.

Clarke gulped back a breath, chest heavy with the weight of all her love, all her desire and need. And she didn't speak, she didn't need to. Lexa knew, Lexa knew how she felt, the extent of it, the breadth.

So instead, she nodded. Love and trust and need, a jut of her strong chin.

Lexa smiled, and then she pulled out the object she'd hidden under the blankets when she first rose, when she first moved herself into position to tease the blonde awake.

And seeing what her partner held, Clarke let out a shuddering sigh, and then stopped breathing all-together, her hunger burning through her, stealing away every breath.

Lexa slipped the thicker end of the toy into herself with a small grunt, adjusting to the feeling of it inside, letting her muscles get used to the stretch, until she was confident she could grasp and hold it tight within.

She looked up again to the head of the bed from where she knelt between her lover's strong, powerful thighs, and saw Clarke's wide eyes there, "Ready?"

Her wife whimpered as Lexa ran two fingers up and down the wet length of her, collecting the slickness gathered there before fisting the purple cock jutting out from her hips, soaking it with Clarke's arousal. Satisfied at the aching look on Clarke's face, the desperation for fulfillment she could see mirrored there, Lexa rose up on her knees and pulled at the blonde's hips, getting her wife into position.

Lacing the fingers of one hand with her wife's, she guided the smooth head of the dildo to the entrance of Clarke's pussy, and then slowly, slowly, slowly, thrust inside. She held the blonde's blue, blue gaze, she watched Clarke's eyelids flutter at the sensations, at the feeling of being gently, tenderly filled. Watched them close.

And then, Clarke groaned, this deep, low, sexy sound, and Lexa knew she was home. She held herself there, deep inside of her wife, thigh muscles tense as she waited for her wife to open her eyes, waited to see those smoky blue irises again, the signal that would tell her Clarke was ready for me.

The brunette leaned forward, feeling her wife's body shift beneath her, and planted her free hand on the bed just above her wife's shoulder, holding herself up as she lowered her mouth to kiss at the corner of Clarke's lips, to whisper nothings into Clarke's ear. Until she felt the blonde begin to kiss her back, felt Clarke reach down with her free hand to clutch and grab at Lexa's ass.

"Fuck, Lex," Clarke said as her wife lowered herself, as she felt Lexa's skin make contact with hers, felt their breasts brush against each other's, nipples hard and tight.

And Lexa laughed, fuck indeed.

She began to thrust, hips circling gently as she slowly withdrew, and then thrust fast back into Clarke. The uneven pacing, the off-balance rhythm only served to kindle the blonde's need higher and higher as she met every thrust of Lexa's hips in-kind, freeing her other hand to grasp at the brunette's ass, to pull her in closer with every movement.

Soon she was panting, her breath heavy and hot against Lexa's neck, as police officer wrapped an arm around her wife's shoulder and clutched her closer.

Faster and faster she thrust into Clarke's willing, demanding body, feeling Clarke's need grow as her muscles gripped and caressed the dildo tighter and tighter. As each thrust in and out met with more and more resistance, the blonde clenching her so exquisitely within her body.

Her wife began to gasp, to moan, to grunt with every movement of Lexa's body. Until she was panting Lexa's name, until she was begging, until she could no longer manage words and was only left with sounds. Until the growing silence between her tortured breaths spoke a language of their own, of love and wanting, of aching, of blind desperation.

And then Lexa thrust harder, faster. She held Clarke close to her, buried her mouth in the sweet hallow curve of the blonde's neck, and reached her free hand in-between their bodies. Lexa drew tight, firm circles at the base of her wife's clit, finally, finally bringing more than a casual brush of a finger to the place Clarke needed her attention most, needed her touch to come. She stroked at the hard, hot shaft, as earlier she had stroked the hard dildo she wore, and then, ever so delicately, and then harder, harder, rubbed steadily at the tip. Until she felt Clarke come apart underneath her, the artist's heels digging into her back, biting at the flesh of her shoulder.

Lexa continued to thrust through her wife's orgasm, slowing, gentling her pace, until Clarke's lungs began to draw in big gulpfuls of air, and those strong fingers loosened their hold on her back, cool air stinging the love-wounds left behind. And then, still buried deep within Clarke's body, and shuddering through the last legs of her own climax, she stilled and collapsed upon the blonde beneath her, both bodies slick with sweat and warm with love.

For a moment they lay there, hearts racing, skin tingling, climaxes echoing through their bodies. And then Clarke laughed, loud and happy, her throat raw but a smile that Leca could hear, even with her eyes closed and her head still buried in the blonde's hair. Clarke's whole body shook, sending pleasant aftershocks through the both of them.

"What are you so happy about," Lexa asked as she gathered her strength and slowly pulled out of the other woman, grinning cheekily at the whimper that escaped from Clarke at the loss.

She held herself up above her wife on unsteady arms, smiling down.

"Nothing," Clarke answered, "you." She rose on her elbows to kiss gently at the smirk on Lexa's face. "That was quite a way to wake up, Woods. And it's not even my birthday-what's the occasion?"

The brunette pretended not to notice the artist's teasing tone.

"What do you mean," she asked, adopting an affronted expression, "can't a woman treat her wife to a mind-blowing orgasm before the alarm goes off for no particular reason?"

"Well, I don't know if I'd describe like that. Mediocre, maybe. A good-faith effort," Clarke answered, playing right along, "but mind-blowing?" She let the word drag out as she struggled not to grin, giving in only when Lexa nipped at her bare skin.

"Okay, okay," she answered, "it was pretty mind-blowing, Lex. Now why don't you let me return the favor, show you what comes after mind-blowing on the 'Griffin Sex Scale.'" She reached between their bodies to take the shaft of the dildo in hand, the bulged other end still nestled securely in her wife's pussy.

Lexa moaned almost imperceptibly in response, her toes curling as she struggled against the desire to forget everything on her schedule today and stay in bed with her wife, wiling away the hours with each other's bodies.

"As much as I'd love to," the police office answered, "that was so you remembered that you're married to a hot cop who rocks your world when you're out being wooed by fancy art groupies who only want you for your masterpieces and your gorgeous ass."

She rocked back onto her knees as the blonde laughed, and gingerly removed the dildo from her body, hissing just the slightest.

"So you're telling me you don't want me for my gorgeous ass," Clarke asked, propped up on her elbows and watching while Lexa stretched and rolled her muscled, toned body.

"No, idiot," Lexa said, rising from the bed and looking ridiculous as she stood there, completely naked, a proud look on her face, toy in hand, "I married you for your amazing breasts. The ass was just a nice bonus."

The pillow just missed her head as she ducked into their bathroom to shower and get ready for the long day ahead.

By the time Lexa finished up and came back into their bedroom, wrapped in a towel barely big enough to cover her, Clarke had fallen back asleep. She'd expected as much, the woman had a terrible habit of falling back to sleep after sex, and the bigger the orgasm, the deeper she slept.

The brunette sat gently on the bed next to where her lover lay, sprawled out on her belly.

For a moment, she just sat there, watching as Clarke slept. But then, duty calling, she pressed a kiss to her wife's shoulder, and whispered in the sleeping woman's ear, "I am so proud of you, Clarke. You're going to knock them dead, I know it."

* * *

Clarke fidgeted a piece of paper-the gallery brochure-in her hands as she watched people, strangers, mill through the displays of her work. Some looked mildly interested, some seemed aloof and judgmental, some seemed taken with a piece that spoke to them. But no matter their reaction to her paintings, no matter what their attitude, they were here for her.

Every one of them.

All but the one person she wanted-needed-to be there.

Sure, her friends had shown up. Raven, with her latest in a long line of attractive male companions, had stopped by to celebrate and drink free champagne. Her old studio-partner and his younger sister came, all dressed up in their best clothes and looking uncomfortable as they mingled among men wearing Rolexes and women weighted down with the opulence of their gold and diamonds. Her boss from when she worked that job at the catering company, an old neighbor, some people she went to high school with.

But Lexa-Lexa who had promised to be there, to stand next to her and keep her from running out the door, was nowhere to be found.

"Hey, have you tried calling her again," Raven asked as she came up behind Clarke with another flute of champagne.

Clarke shook her head, gratefully trading the tattered paper in her hands for the drink.

"No," she said in-between attempts to sip and not gulp down the sweet champagne, "I left a message about an hour ago, but there have been no messages, not since Bel took my phone away. He said he'd keep an eye on it though, and let me know if she called or texted."

Raven looked annoyed. "Hey," she bumped the blonde's shoulder, "think of all the groveling she's going to have to do to make this up to you-your first exhibition and she's a no-show. That's gotta be worth some serious bling, right?"

But Clarke just continued to watch the crowd with worry in her eyes. She knew there were only a few things that would have kept her wife from this event. Lexa knew just how important this was, how it could break open Clarke's career.

For Lexa to miss this, for Lexa not to be here by her side ... it had to be something big.

She just hoped her wife was okay.

* * *

The show was winding down when Bellamy finally tracked her down talking to a buyer.

"It's her," he said, and shoved Clarke's phone into her hand.

"Clarke-?" Lexa's voice came through the line and Clarke breathed a sigh of relief, whispering some excuse to the woman in front of her and searching out a quiet corner to talk.

"Clarke, I'm so sorry," Lexa continued in a rush, "but there was an accident. Sergeant Ash, I mean Gus. There was a mobile pursuit and two squads collided. All four officers were taken to the hospital, including Gus."

Clarke tried to get a word in edgewise, but couldn't in-between her wife's nervous rambling.

"LEX," she whispered fiercely, finally. And Lexa went quiet.

"What hospital are you at," the blonde asked, and made note of the answer, "I'll be there as soon as I can, okay? Just hold tight."

And then, "I love you, Lex," she added before she hung up, and turned to Bellamy standing off to the side.

* * *

The waiting room was packed with cops. Some Clarke recognized, many she didn't. It took her a moment or two to find her wife, but eventually she spotted Lexa, sitting with members of her division, next to Anya.

That Lexa didn't even notice her walk up was surprising enough, but the look on the brunette's face when she finally realized someone was standing in front of her said it all. The police officer was devastated-Gus had been her training officer, a surrogate father to the young rookie who'd known so little kindness in her short life. He'd taken Lexa under his large, capable wings, into his family and his life.

For Lexa to look so devastated meant that it was serious, that there was a good chance Gus wouldn't pull through.

"I'm so sorry," Lexa said, blinking away tears angrily and refusing to meet Clarke's eyes.

Anya looked at her partner, and then back at Clarke before excusing herself to find some coffee. She patted the blonde's arm in understanding as she stood to leave.

"Hey," Clarke said, taking up the spot next to her wife, "it's okay. Gus will be okay, I'm sure of it. He's basically a mountain, a little car accident couldn't harm him."

But Lexa just shook her head harder, still unable to look up at her wife.

"Not for Gus. Your show. I know I was supposed to be there. I'm so sorry I let you dow-"

"-No," Clarke interrupted, and laid her hand over Lexa's knee, "you were where you needed to be, Lex. You should have called me earlier. I would have come to sit with you sooner."

Lexa looked at her, disbelief plain in her eyes. "You had a show," she said, as if that idea that someone would give up the opportunity of a lifetime for her, to be with her, to sit and wait with her, were inconceivable.

"You come first, Lex, always. That was part of the whole marriage thing, remember? You always come first," the artist answered, and nudged Lexa's shoulder with her forehead.

Her wife just looked down at her, awe in her eyes, and a hint of something new in the familiar look of love there, before taking Clarke's hand into hers and giving it a squeeze.

They sat in silence after that, and wait for news.

Later, after who knows how many hours crammed into the uncomfortable chairs of the emergency waiting room, the doctors came out and announced that all four cops are expected to make full recoveries. And Lexa, for the first time all night, breathed easily.

"Hey," she said quietly, and gently shook Clarke, who's fallen asleep leaning up against her, "let's go home."

Her wife yawned and stretched, and Lexa noticed, finally, what Clarke was wearing. The slinky black dress, the stiletto heels, the way her hair was pulled up and curled to fall in gentle waves around her face.

"Damn," the cop said, almost whistling in appreciation, "babe, you look hot."

Clarke just laughed and slowly stood, linking their arms together.

"Let's go home, Lex."


	5. Chapter 5

By the time Lexa was brought down to the room, Clarke had mostly gotten over her fear and worked through the majority of her anger.

What was left-after the orderly wheeled Lex's bed in and the nurse hung the IV bags up, as the sound of the heart monitor's steady beat and the wheeze of the ventilator filled the room-was love.

It was enough.

It was enough.

God, she hoped it was enough.

For a moment, Clarke stood by the bed, just looking over the still form that lay before her.

Lexa was pale, paler than Clarke had ever seen her before. Her skin almost translucent under the harsh hospital lights above. Someone had tied back the long, curly hair that Lex normally put up and away from her face in intricate braids. Still, a few wisps escaped, and Clarke reached out a trembling hand to brush them away from her wife's bruise-darkened eyelids.

"Oh, Lex," Clarke said with a slow breath, her voice heavy, and tired.

But her sleeping partner, held deep in the sweet arms of some sedative or another, stayed silent.

Eventually, curiosity got the better of the blonde, or boredom, or maybe it was the tickle of fear that caught in her throat every little while as she sat in the uncomfortable plastic hospital chair and watched the metered rise and fall of her wife's chest. She leaned forward and let go of Lexa's thin hand to cautiously peel back the collar of the pale blue gown, to expose the layers of gauze and tape and tubing beneath.

Three shots, Lexa's chief had said, she'd taken three bullets. One to the chest, nicking at bone and cleaving through delicate lung tissue. Another to the abdomen, all those precious organs compromised-kidneys and intestines and the liver, so necessary and so easily destroyed. The third, to her thigh, where it lodged in the sturdy bone of her femur after shredding through skin and tearing through muscle.

Clarke'd asked Gus about Lexa's vest, but what good was a vest against a couple of cop-killers, anyway?

The surgeon said she'd been lucky when he came out to the waiting room, Lexa's blood darkening his scrubs. An inch to the left, he'd said, and this one'd've caught her heart. An inch to the right and that one would've lodged in her spine. An inch higher, and the third might have opened her femoral artery.

"Your wife really is quite lucky," he said a final time, clapping a gentle hand on her shoulder before he went back to saving lives, stitching people back up together.

So much luck, so many angels watching over her, they'd all said. The doctors, the nurses, the officers.

Lucky was losing so much blood that the hospital'd had to initiate their massive transfusion protocol to save her life, and a long, long line of cops and doctors and firefighters and friends rolling up their sleeves to donate, just in case.

Lucky, it seemed, was a ventilator and a medically-induced coma, a room in the ICU and a bevy of machines keeping her wife alive, a chorus of hums and beeps and whistles, and every now and again, the shrill scream of an alarm and the heavy thud of nursing sneakers coming to retape a sensor or change a bag or just soothe Clarke's shattered nerves.

Lucky was waiting, and waiting, and waiting for Lexa to finally stir, to wiggle those long and delicate fingers, to crook her mouth into that wry grin, to open her beautiful, beautiful, green eyes.

Minutes stretched into hours, and hours blended into days as the entire world, Clarke's entire world, shrank down to this hospital, this ward, this room, this bed. To the numbers on Lexa's chart, the slow cycle of nurses and doctors and techs who circled in and out of the room, to the wounds that would become her wife's scars.

One day, Clarke promised herself, promised Lexa's sleeping form, this will be over. One day she'd kiss the raised and puckered scars, worship at their significance. One day she'd climb into bed with Lexa and forget that there was ever a time of fluorescent lights and beeping monitors and air oversaturated with antiseptic and grief.

But they were still in the hours of waiting.

And so Clarke did.

* * *

Her mother came to the hospital. Unwelcome as ever, she appeared at the door of Lexa's room on the second day, laden down with bags.

"Clarke," Abby said from the door, her voice apprehensive, hesitant.

For a second, weary from the events of the past twenty-four hours, the worry and the waiting, Clarke was glad. And she hated herself for it. For wanting to be wrapped up in her mother's arms once again, safe and innocent and free.

But she wasn't any of those things, not anymore. She hadn't been safe or innocent or free since the day she buried her father, the day her mother had been arrested in connection with his death. The state might not have deemed her guilty in connection to Jake Griffin's death, had decided that she'd merely assisted in his suicide out of love, out of mercy. But as far as Clarke was concerned, her mother might as well have been locked up, key long since thrown away.

"They let you in here still?" Clarke asked in a cruel tone that she regretted as soon as she heard the words spoken aloud.

But Abby ignored it. She'd never asked for Clarke's forgiveness, she'd known from the start that she'd never get it. But she'd hoped for understanding, for mercy.

She still hoped.

"Marcus called me," she said, "he recognized you pacing in the waiting room, asked one of the nurses."

Clarke wouldn't look at her, but she wasn't Abby to leave, either, something her mother took as progress.

"You got married," she said, sitting in the chair on the other side of the bed and looking at her daughter across the unconscious cop's body. It wasn't a question, just a statement of fact, and her voice was sad, full of regrets. She'd broken so many things, ruined so many things between them.

But Clarke was strong, so strong. She could see it in her daughter, sitting curled into a chair and holding the still hand of a beautiful woman in the hospital bed. Broken, yes, parts of her healed over, others still healing. But still proud, still stubborn, still fierce and loving.

Abby would give anything to go back, to make things right between them, but she knew that if she couldn't, if she couldn't mend the broken bonds between them, Clarke would be okay.

Clarke would survive.

Thrive.

"Yeah," her daughter answered softly, as if the thought of her wife had smoothed over the rebellion in her heart, "a while ago. It started as a matter of paperwork. Someone to call when she was injured on the job, a name on the next-of-kin line."

Abby was quiet. Clarke was talking, around her, if not to her, and she didn't want to do anything to break the moment, to remind Clarke just why it had been years since the last time they spoke.

"But it-she's just so much, you know?" Clarke shifted in her chair and raised her head, glancing back and forth between her wife in the bed and her mother, "It started as something simple and exciting. Someone to call and have it mean nothing. But then before I even realized what had happened, she was everything. She's stubborn and she's one of those strong and silent types, like in those old movies dad was always trying to get us to watch. She'll let me yell and yell at her when I'm upset about something, but when she has a bad day I have to poke and prod and pull it out of her. She never believes she's enough and she has this ridiculous idea in her head that she doesn't deserve me, but the truth is, I don't deserve her."

When Clarke looked up, when she finally met Abby's eyes, her own, those clear blue irises that she'd inherited from Jake, were wet. And it took everything in Abby not to rise, not to go to her daughter and pull Clarke into her arms, against her chest, let her daughter sob out her fears and her losses against the breast where she'd once fed as a newborn babe.

But she knew better. And so she remained.

"She's been hurt by so many, but she's so, so good. And she loves me," Clarke said with a sob that she can't choke back. "I married her before I realized just how deeply I loved her, but the truth is, when I think about it, I've loved her almost from the start. And if she-"

Clarke was unable to finish the thought, and this time Abby did rise. She stood over her daughter, uncertain even as she took the younger woman's hands into her own, even as she pulled Clarke up, out of the chair, and into her arms. She held her close, felt the wet of her daughter's tears spread across her shirt as Clarke wept out her anger and her fear and the terrible nightmare threat of losing yet someone else she loved.

"I don't know what I'll do if she doesn't make it, mom," Clarke said, her voice cracking as she let go of the control she'd been clinging to so tightly these past few days.

"I know, honey, I know," Abby answered, her voice lullaby-soft, as she rubbed a hand down Clarke's strong back.

And she did.

* * *

Eventually, Clarke had calmed down, and somehow Abby was able to convince her to leave for a little while, to wash up, change into the clothes she'd brought, get something to eat.

She would, she promised, keep vigil over Lexa, and have Clarke paged at the slightest change.

When she was finally alone with her daughter-in-law, Abby breathed deep, and took in this woman who was now a part of her family, who had captured her daughter's heart.

Lexa-Alexandria Woods, according to the chart, twenty-eight, A+ blood-was long and lean, strong, obviously, but also soft. Her face was pleasant, even beautiful despite the paleness of her skin and the gaunt hollow of her cheeks. Still, even now, Abby could see the woman her daughter loved.

She hadn't ever been a religious woman, she'd always been a person of science, of fact. But now she prayed like she'd only ever prayed once before. For someone to live.

Maybe this time someone would listen.

* * *

"Lex would hate this," Clarke said, breaking the silence and startling her mother. Abby thought the blonde had been sleeping, she'd been so quiet in her chair, curled up with the blanket that Abby'd gently lain over her.

Clarke continued, sitting up a little straighter. "She hates being sick," she said with a sad smile, "absolutely hates it. One time she came down with pneumonia when she was still a beat cop, and her partner-Anya-threatened to arrest her if she didn't call in sick until she got better. But it's not like she was any more well-behaved at home. She paced the whole time, coughing and hacking, and kept interrupting me in the studio until she tired herself out and passed out on the couch under the skylight."

That was a good memory. It made her smile.

"Oh, yes," Abby said, "I've seen that work-the gallery show about two years ago, right? Cyclone at Rest, yes?"

Her daughter looked at her, shocked.

"What, just because you won't talk to me I can't follow your career, Clarke? I'm still your mother. I'm very proud of your success." Abby's smile was sly but real. "You know," she continued, "I thought about making an offer on that piece, but I was told by the representative that it was one of the only submissions not for sale."

Clarke quirked her head, more than a little stunned. "It's hanging in my studio. It's my favorite piece, I think. Lexa pretends to hate it, she growls every time she sees it, but she likes it too. One time I lent it to a show and didn't tell her and she stomped around for a full day before she asked about it." She grinned, lost in the memory for a moment, before sobering.

"It's been four days and the doctor keeps telling me that she's doing as best as can be expected." Clarke's voice was heavy, and tired, "They're going to stop the sedatives tomorrow, Marcus told me that when you were out earlier. And then we'll see, then it's up to Lexa to wake up."

Abby knew this all already. She'd been a trauma surgeon for many years before she lost her license. The doctors had been doing everything exactly as she would have. But her years of experience meant that she knew just exactly the chances of her daughter-in-law making a full recovery. And while Lexa was strong and young, and both those factors worked in her favor, she'd suffered tremendous trauma from those three bullets, from the surgeries required to save her life. Her heart had stopped more than once, the chart said, and the surgical team had only just brought her back that last time. It was close, all her experience told her.

Still, as a doctor Abby had learned that sometimes not everything could be explained by facts and data. She'd learned that sometimes the weakest patients fought the hardest, that sometimes the strongest ones just gave up. Sometimes things happened that couldn't be explained.

And Lexa, well, Abby had a feeling that she'd pull through. Despite everything that might suggest otherwise.

For a moment or two, they sat quietly, in this tentative peace they'd found.

Until Clarke took in a deep breath, and spoke up.

"I know she's a cop, I've always known that this could happen. But I never thought it would, you know? I know there have been close calls, and she's been hurt before. But not like this. And the longer she's asleep, the longer she's in that bed, the more I find myself thinking about that paperwork she made me sign when we got married. Medical stuff, legal stuff."

Abby could guess what sort of documents her daughter had signed. The immortal innocence of youth guiding her hand along the pages. It's tragic, she thought to herself, to look back and see how powerless we were at the time we thought we had the world most in hand.

"Medical power of attorney, and an advanced directive?" she asked. "So you know her wishes then?"

Clarke nodded. "If something happens, if she's lost cognitive function or dependent upon invasive techniques to keep her alive, I'm supposed to let her go." Her tone was clinical, but her body language was anything but as she made herself small, pulled all her limbs into her body. "How am I supposed to do that, how could she ask me to do that? I don't know if I can."

"Clarke," Abby stared at the tortured expression on her daughter's face, but stopped. She could tell the girl that everything would be okay, that Lexa would wake and be okay. But both of them knew the twisted turns that life could take. Both of them knew that no happy endings were ever guaranteed.

So instead, Abby did something different.

Instead, Abby spoke of Jake, the man she'd loved and lost. The ghost whose memory stood between her and her daughter, a painful wedge.

She told Clarke of sitting in this very hospital when he was diagnosed. The way Jake took her hand in his and squeezed, gently. How innocent he was-they both were-believing that they could conquer the unconquerable. Beat the beast.

Clarke'd been at school, and so at first they'd kept it from her. Until his decline could no longer be denied, no longer be concealed. And when she'd threatened to quit, threatened to leave her studies, her dream of becoming a doctor, to come home, they hadn't let her.

Abby told her daughter all the things they should have told her then, before everything fell apart. But Jake'd still had hope back then, and she hadn't had the heart to tell him different. She shared how much pain Jake had been in, how he couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, couldn't do anything without being in agony. How he'd lingered for months, not sick enough to die but too sick to live.

Her strong, proud, wonderful husband.

How terrible it had been to watch him suffer and struggle.

"It took him almost a month to convince me," she told Clarke, "said he'd do it himself if I couldn't help, that it was okay if I couldn't. And he would have, somehow. He would have done it, and he would have suffered worse in his quest for peace."

Clarke looks at her, face still. She can't tell if her daughter is angry or sad, if she hates her more for the whole story or less. But she knows that Clarke needs to hear it, all of it. And so she continues.

"How could I say no after that?" she asked, "how could I deny him this last wish. It was help him go easily, or turn my face from it and live knowing I could have given him a quiet, calm death, and didn't. So I said yes. I wrote the prescriptions, I got the pills. And after he took them, as he fell into his first gentle sleep in more than a year, I lay with him in our bed. He wasn't alone and he wasn't in pain. And if I had the chance to go back, I'd do it just the same."

"He died well, Clarke," Abby said, her voice strong, "on his terms. I held him and told him I loved him, and he fell asleep-he passed away-holding a picture of you. And I'd do it all again, even with everything it's cost me. For your father, I'd do it all again."

The room was quiet but for the soft swish of the ventilator, the steady rhythm of the heart monitor. And they sat, Clarke and Abby, for a long time, with no words.

Until Clarke broke the quiet.

"I hated you for what you did," she said, and shook her head when her mother started to speak, "no, let me. I've hated you for taking him away from me. I didn't understand, how could I? I'd never loved anyone, never offered myself up, never begged the world to take me instead. I hated you because I blamed you for taking him away from me."

Clarke took a deep breath, wiping away the tears in the corner of her eyes, "But I understand now. What it means to love someone like that. Completely. How you'd do anything for them. Break your own heart if it was what they wanted, what they needed."

They were both crying, sobbing softly on opposite sides of the cool hospital room until Clarke rose and joined her mother on the stiff sofa near the foot of the bed.

"I'm sorry, mom," she whispered in-between breaths, "I'm so sorry."

They sat like that through the night, Clarke asleep against her mother's shoulder, Abby's legs tucked under her body, until the doctor arrived the next morning, a nurse behind him.

"Okay," he said, "let's do this."

* * *

On the seventh day-three bullet holes, four days in a coma, two days struggling to wake up, and a family slowly stitching itself back together later-Lexa woke.

Her fingers curled, her nose twitched, and then her eyelids parted, revealing her deep green irises as she blinked against the harsh hospital lighting. For a moment, she panicked, unable to move, a tube in her throat, no memory of what had happened. But then Clarke squeezed her hand, came into her field of vision, whispered her name, and Lexa let herself relax into the steady, loving eyes of her wife.

Eventually the doctor came, and took out the tube that had regulated her breathing while she was asleep. It burned, and when she coughed it tore through her body, setting every nerve aflame. But she could speak then, rasp words into her wife's ear.

"I love you," first, and then the question that made Clarke laugh and tighten her grip on Lexa's hand, "Can I go home yet?"

The blonde's answer had been just what she expected.

"No, stupid, you got yourself shot and you're going to stay here as long as it takes. Without any trouble," Clarke added on with a teasing glare before introducing the other woman in the room, her mother, Abby Griffin.

There was a story there, Lexa knew, something had occurred in the days she was unconscious, something bridge had been mended. But Clarke seemed happy, so Lexa didn't ask.

"No trouble," she repeated with as much of a pout as she could muster, already feeling herself slip back toward the darkness of sleep, "no fun."

"You almost died," she heard her wife whisper as her eyes closed, "you're not going to be having any fun for a long, long time."

Later, when she woke again, it was to the solid warmth of Clarke's body against hers, breathing heavily in her ear, and remembered those last words.

She was alive.

Clarke was asleep next to her.

It was enough.


	6. Epilogue

Lexa hobbled through the wide, bright halls of the hospital, the rubbery tips of her crutches squeaking against the shine of the highly polished floor.

Most people ignored her, but every now and again one would do a quick double-take when they thought she wasn't looking, and she saw several elbows thrown in a "hey, did you see who just walked by" kind of way. It didn't really surprise her. She'd been out of the hospital for a good two months already, but with the fuss she put up while a patient, while trapped in the uncomfortable hospital bed for weekd, and the amount of shit she gave the physical therapy folks at her sessions, she's certain her reputation has cycled through the grapevine more than once or twice.

Plus, the whole "hero cop" thing.

People tended to recognize her face wherever she went lately. It was annoying as hell, and she twisted her mouth into a scowl to guard against anyone asking to come up and shake her hand.

And, it was embarassing, not to mention a bit of a struggle at the moment, as she barely managed to maintain her balance on crutches when she wasn't being asked to shake someone's hand.

As Clarke told her once, after Lexa'd walked them backwards into a door, trying to be sexy and cool and collected and failing miserably, she could be a bit of a klutz.

 _102_

 _103_

 _104_

Lexa continued down the hall until she reached the room she was looking for.

The door was closed, but she ignored that fact and nudged it open with her hip before slipping inside.

There, belly-down on an exam table, was her wife.

"Clarke, what on earth–" Lexa started to speak, but the blonde head rose from the pillow and tilted to the side to get a look at her.

"–Say nothing," Clarke growled crankily from her place atop the gurney.

And wisely–despite every comment she wanted to make about her wife's ass, every question she had about "how a grown woman manages to slip on some paint in her studio and crack her tailbone," every giggle that threatened to escape at the ridiculousness of the word "coccyx"–Lexa kept her mouth shut.

"Hey, Clarke, look who I found out in the parking lot–," she heard Raven say from behind her, right as she felt the door hit her in the back and push her forward.

Before she could even react, they were on the floor; Lexa on the bottom, crutches splayed out to and fro, and Raven on top, seemingly elbowing every little bit of flesh and muscle she could reach as she struggled to get up.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Bellamy said from above them, and lent a hand to help pull Lexa up before ushering her over to the gurney where Clarke scooted to make a little room. "I leave you alone for two minutes to park the car, Lexa. Two minutes! Raven, go get a doc to see if this idiot reinjured anything."

The only thing that made Lexa feel better, as Clarke laughed at her and Bellamy shook his head in disbelief, was the look of terror in the doctor's eyes when he saw her sitting on the gurney.

Everyone just laughed harder.


End file.
